Happyhedonic

Can you see inside your mind, a spark flickering in the caverns of forgotten dreams. See the coming of our times, seasons folding inward into an unknown conclusion. Can achieve what life denies, hands reaching past the veil of all mortal limits. Find the universal ties, threads humming like cosmic wires of fate. Can’t see the day watch the sun trembling from the weight of our undoing. See the darkened future times, horizons bruised purple from storms that have no mercy. Never change their ways, architects of ruin who worship the chaos they create. Be the end of all mankind— implosion that fractures the light that once freed us.

Everything is temporary in this realm but eternal throughout the universe If you can remember the future you can forget the past Time flows in both directions but will inevitably lead to the same destination We have all been born just to be reborn and recreated We are eternal but change each time around. Learn to view yourself as a part of something else, somewhere else Remember this moment, leave markers to return. Find your breadcrumbs to find your way back to all your times around. It can be done It has been done There are people that are doing it right now The technology we forge today shapes our future...yet it once helped unravel our past Somewhere in time the beginning becomes the ending And your ending is just the beginning but living forever might not be as pleasant as it sounds Who will we be living for? If we lose ourselves along the way What will be the cost of survival? Who will reap the benefits? I wish us all well upon our journey into the

It’s completely quiet. Absolutely still. In the darkness I disappear. One-star winks and fades out of view. I hear a whisper saying: "They’ll all be gone soon." Mountains shrink into the haze, only to slowly drift away. The river spills out a secret curse, then goes quiet as a ghost. Silence—thick and sudden, like the death of all dreams. The moon prowls the night sky like a thief left without keys. The doors are locked, never to be reopened. Leaves freeze midair; burning red ice engulfs them. The line blurs between me and the world. There isn’t really any here left at all: no clear place, just a slip into darkness. Night breathes deep and mournfully; color streaks down the sky as if the cosmos themselves are bleeding out their last bruised and melting rainbows. Carved faces flicker, little ghosts twisting their light into an angry and ancient hunger. My shadow shrugs as if indifferent, stretching itself tall and loose, outgrowing the planets—eyes swimming within

[DEVIATION] Autumn winds swirling Leaves murmur in slow descent Earth glows gold ember.

It’s a cold, cruel comfort that enthralls us so, a plague upon our intellect that our hearts refuse to show. We live inside dark, musty tombs that shall never know of light, never feel illumination or see the glare that brought us to this plight. Cold, comfort in a sad, cruel world. Bargaining for salvation with everything we own. The hourglass is flowing fast, time there is no more. What we thought was present has now passed… as all has been before. Everything that has happened always will happen, and everything that will happen always has happened. Shall I now write some pretty words? Words that are hard to pronounce but lovely when heard? Or shall I lie? For lie we all must do, but from these lies what terrible truths are told. So let us be silent, you and I. But others may misconstrue and think we’re being rude. Where then should we go, and what then should we say? We must be different, you and I, for others seem to converse just fine. Yes... but such strange

Dull and dangerous, I sit alone, waiting — The room is humming with a frequency I alone can hear. Loneliness doesn’t bother me. For some strange reason I prefer the quiet echo of my own company. The private theater that plays behind my eyes while the world outside stumbles through its crooked, corrupt little play. But lately, I feel the static watching. They’re monitoring the frequency... this frequency, right now. They slip through the TV set, swim across computer screens, patient ghosts nested in the circuitry. Every thought I’ve ever carried, every word I’ve let fall, every dream that flickered in the dark corners of sleep They’ve taken it all, archived it in some hidden vault I’ll never see. I lift the shades. Outside, the day performs its usual madness: A dog pissing in the street, a child scribbling graffiti on a rubber ball. An old man mowing his lawn in sagging shorts. Some punk blasting rap from his hideous, obnoxious car. And yet — beneath all that

I enjoy reading writers where you sense the horrific, horrendous, gut wrenching pain they endure in their lives. Where their earliest traumas come oozing off the page, like a bloody, malignant, pulsating tumor. You can feel the humiliation, torment, suffocating pressure they've sustained within their words. As you read them, you realize that if they hadn’t found a pen, pencil, or keyboard, they might have just as easily been grabbing a knife, cutting their wrist and lying in a nice warm bathtub. Swallowed by the same feral, corrosive, unrelenting storm that haunts their work the kind that drives a person into shadowy, dangerous, desperate corners of themselves. These are the poems and the stories I love: The raw, jagged, unfiltered ones, but when I can’t find them, I’m just forced to write about myself: Dragging up my own ancient childhood, festering, half‑buried, suffering ghosts and letting them speak in whatever fractured, trembling

We go about our days in our usual chaotic ways, completing the tasks that will slowly drive us insane. Soul‑dead conformists try to tell me what to think. Flesh‑colored platitudes dissolve inside their invisible sinks. My attic is swept clean, the curtains are drawn. A black helicopter has just landed on my yard. Pinpricks of light try to clear up the fog, but the oxy high is still holding on. It’s a new dawn, unravel your smiles and loosen your tongue. Time to spill forth some more drivel and dung. Dead ants lay on my windowsill. I torch their remains with a hundred‑dollar bill. Life is lonely inside this jail. The hours just meander, and the sky refuses to answer me. My shadow crawls across the floor trying to escape the man, I’ve become. I hear white static noise where my being used to be. I taste metallic death every time I breathe. The world keeps spinning like a rusted old carousel. No music. No lights. Just the grind of dying machinery. I whisper to the swirling